The Throwaway Children

by Diney Costeloe

  Stanton looked startled. ‘Got rid of her daughters? How d’you mean?’

  Lily told him everything, and as she talked he took notes, his pencil flying over the pages, so that he missed nothing.

  When at last she lapsed into silence, he asked, ‘Can you tell me anything about Jimmy Randall’s family, or his friends?’

  ‘Not much,’ admitted Lily. ‘His father’s still alive. Jimmy used to live with him till he moved in with my Mavis.’

  ‘Do you know his address?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ replied Lily, ‘but somewhere in Leyton Street, I think.’

  Stanton nodded and made another note. ‘And his name?’

  Lily shrugged. ‘I only met him once, at the wedding, and I called him Mr Randall. Never heard his Christian name.’

  ‘What about friends?’

  ‘His best man was called Charlie. Don’t know his other name, but I do know they worked together.’

  ‘Do you know where he worked?’

  ‘On a building site somewhere.’

  ‘You don’t know where?’

  ‘No. I never heard.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Jimmy drinks at the Red Lion, I expect someone there’ll know.’

  DS Stanton made another note. ‘Thank you, Mrs Sharples. I think that’s all for now.’

  ‘No, it ain’t,’ Lily told him. ‘You ain’t told me what you found yet, in the house, I mean.’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure—’ began Stanton, but Lily interrupted him.

  ‘Well, I am. It’s my daughter what’s been murdered, I’m entitled to know what you found.’

  ‘I’m afraid all I can tell you, Mrs Sharples, is that the doctor has pronounced her dead—’

  ‘Anyone could see that, for God’s sake,’ cried Lily in frustration.

  ‘And her body has been removed to the mortuary so that a post-mortem can be performed.’

  Lily looked at him, horrified. ‘You ain’t going to cut her up!’ she cried in dismay. ‘What you got to do that for?’

  ‘It’s just normal procedure,’ replied Stanton uncomfortably, ‘to establish cause of death and—’

  ‘I can tell you how she died,’ exploded Lily. ‘He cut her throat!’

  ‘It isn’t as simple as that,’ Stanton tried to explain, ‘there may be clues that will help us identify the killer—’

  ‘But we know who killed her.’ Lily stared at him in disbelief.

  ‘We know who may have killed her,’ Stanton said patiently, ‘but we have to find the evidence to establish it beyond doubt.’

  Lily seemed dumbfounded, and Stanton took advantage of her silence to say, ‘Now, if you could just give me your full name and address, Mrs Sharples, someone will be round tomorrow to take a formal statement.’

  ‘What was this then?’ demanded Lily. ‘Weren’t this a statement?’

  ‘Not exactly, Mrs Sharples, we needed some information to work on, and you’ve given us that. And I can assure you,’ Stanton went on hastily, ‘that we shall be following up all the leads that you’ve given us today.’ He snapped his notebook closed and getting to his feet, turned to Carrie, who had stood listening to the whole interview.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Maunder,’ he said. ‘You knew Mavis Randall well, I assume.’

  Carrie nodded. ‘Yes, she was my best friend.’

  ‘Then we’ll want to talk to you, too,’ he said.

  ‘Well, what did you think of that?’ asked Lily dully when Carrie returned from showing Stanton out.

  ‘S’pose he had to ask them questions,’ Carrie said carefully. She didn’t want to upset Lily, but she’d thought the detective had been quite sensitive in his questions. ‘They have to find out what’s been going on, don’t they?’

  Richard, tired of sitting on the floor, began to grizzle, and Lily leaned down and picked him up.

  ‘Come on, young man,’ she said, ‘we’d better get home.’

  ‘Will you be OK,’ asked Carrie, ‘going home by yourself?’

  ‘Course I will,’ retorted Lily. ‘Why wouldn’t I be? I always go home by myself.’

  ‘Yes, well, I know,’ said Carrie, ‘but you’ve had a dreadful shock today, ain’t you? Why don’t you wait till my John gets in, and he’ll come with you? I’d come myself, but the kids’ll be home from school directly.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Carrie,’ said Lily. ‘I’ve taken up your whole day.’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ Carrie took her hand. ‘You’ve had a bloody awful day, and I’m just glad I was here to help you.’

  ‘So am I. Don’t know what I’d have done without you, honest. But I need to get home, feel my own things round me; look after Ricky. Let’s face it, he ain’t got anyone else, now, has he?’

  In the end Carrie gave up trying to persuade her to wait for John.

  When Lily emerged into the street, she was relieved to see that the crowd of on-lookers had dispersed, but glancing back at number 9, she saw Constable Chapman standing outside it, and on impulse she went over to him.

  ‘Why are you standing outside the house?’ she asked. ‘Haven’t they finished?’

  ‘No one’s allowed inside,’ he replied, ‘still a crime scene.’

  ‘Can I go in?’ asked Lily. ‘I need to get some things for the baby, clothes and stuff.’

  ‘’Fraid not,’ answered the constable. ‘No one’s allowed in.’

  ‘When can I?’ asked Lily. ‘I need stuff.’

  ‘Few days, I should think. They’ll be able to tell you more down at the station. They’ve taken a whole load of things away to look at. I expect they’ll let you back in when they’re sure they don’t need anything else. What’re you going to do now?’ Chapman asked.

  ‘Me, I’m going to go home and start bringing up my grandson.’

  ‘Won’t the Children’s Department offer you some help there?’ suggested Chapman. ‘I could have a word—’

  ‘Don’t you dare!’

  Constable Chapman looked taken aback by her vehemence, but before he could say any more, Lily went on, ‘We won’t be going near them, thank you very much. They’ve took two of my grandchildren already, and they ain’t getting their hands on this one.’ And with this she set off down the street, pushing the pram that carried her grandson to the safety of her home.

  ‘That’s one brave and determined lady,’ Constable Chapman murmured as he watched her go. And thinking back to the courage and determination he’d seen on Rita’s face all those months ago, he realized where the little girl had got it from.

  31

  Lily went into her house and closed the door. The warm familiarity of her home enveloped her, and suddenly she felt completely exhausted. She had been running on adrenaline ever since she’d found Mavis, and now, back in her own kitchen, she was so tired she could hardly stand. She lifted Richard out of the pram and holding him close, sank down onto a chair. Although she knew he needed changing, she hadn’t the energy to do it. She simply sat on the chair, rocking him in her arms, the tears slipping down her cheeks, soaking into his soft baby hair; and this was how Anne Baillie found her.

  She’d heard about Mavis from a customer in the shop and she’d stripped off her apron and gone straight round to Hampton Road.

  She reached out and took the baby from Lily’s arms. ‘I’ll see to him,’ she said. ‘You put the kettle on and make some tea.’

  Lily did as she was told, mechanically going through the familiar routine, and when Anne returned to the kitchen with Richard, clean and comfortable, Lily had made tea and set out cups. As soon as she saw Richard, Lily reached out for him.

  Anne poured the tea and then said, ‘I heard about Mavis, Lily. Is there anything Fred or I can do?’

  With Richard cradled in her arms, Lily began to speak. In a low voice she described what she’d found, and as the vision of Mavis lying dead on her kitchen floor filled her mind, she began to sob again. The tea cooled, ignored, on the table as Lily relived the events of the morning and Anne sat and listened in horror.


  ‘She was just laying there,’ Lily wept, ‘just laying on the kitchen floor. The blood was all round her… so much blood, and her eyes, just staring and staring.’

  When she lapsed into silence Anne took the now sleeping Richard and laid him gently in the pram. ‘I think I should come and stay with you tonight,’ she said. ‘You shouldn’t be by yourself.’

  Lily was about to refuse, but suddenly she knew Anne was right, she didn’t want to be alone, not for tonight. She had Richard to look after, and she felt so tired, so very tired. ‘You’re very kind, Anne. But just for tonight. I’ll be all right tomorrow, looking after Ricky and that.’

  So Anne stayed the night, and it was she who answered the door to Sergeant Stanton and a Constable Turner.

  ‘We’ve come to take a formal statement from Mrs Sharples,’ Stanton explained.

  They sat in the kitchen and Stanton took Lily through the questions he’d asked the day before, while Turner scribbled busily in his notebook, making careful record of her answers.

  ‘I wonder,’ Stanton said at last, ‘have you a photo of Jimmy Randall?’

  ‘Only this one,’ Lily replied, reaching for a framed wedding photo on the dresser. She handed it to the sergeant. ‘The bride and groom,’ she said bitterly.

  Mavis beamed with happiness at her new husband; Jimmy smiling too, his dark head thrown back, his eyes turned away from the camera. A tall man, with strong shoulders and his demob suit looking uncomfortably tight across his chest, he had a tight grip on his bride’s arm, as if proclaiming ownership. ‘May I take this?’ Stanton asked. ‘I’ll return it to you as soon as we’ve made copies.’

  ‘I don’t want it back,’ Lily said. ‘I never want to see it again.’

  That afternoon Lily persuaded Anne to go home. ‘I’ll be perfectly all right,’ she insisted. ‘I’ve Ricky to look after, he’ll give me plenty to keep me occupied.’ She grasped Anne’s hand. ‘You’re a true friend, Anne. Thank you for staying last night.’

  ‘We’re still here if you need us,’ Anne replied, ‘if you need help with the baby or anything.’

  ‘I’ll remember,’ promised Lily, ‘but we got to get used to each other, Ricky and me, ’cos I’ll be taking care of him from now on.’

  ‘Will the social let you?’ wondered Anne.

  ‘Let them try and stop me,’ replied Lily fiercely. ‘Ricky’s mine now, just let them try and take him away.’

  Anne was about to go home when there was another knock at the door. She opened it, preparing to send away whoever it was.

  ‘Yes?’ Her tone was unwelcoming. On the step was a good-looking man in a smart suit. He greeted her with a disarming smile.

  ‘Good afternoon, madam, I’m Terry Knight from the Belcaster Chronicle. Mrs Sharples?’

  ‘No, I’m a neighbour,’ Anne replied. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘We were so sorry to hear of the dreadful murder of Mavis Randall… Mrs Sharples’ daughter, was it?’

  Anne nodded.

  ‘Of course the Chronicle is leading with the story, but my editor sent me round to talk to poor Mrs Randall’s mother, to make sure we had all our facts right.’

  ‘I’m afraid she isn’t seeing anyone at present,’ Anne told him. ‘The police’ve been here already and that’s enough for one day.’

  ‘I suppose you couldn’t help me with a little background information about the family?’ Terry Knight treated Anne to his most engaging smile.

  ‘No, I couldn’t,’ Anne said firmly. ‘It’s not my business, nor yours, neither.’ She began to close the door, saying, ‘You ought to know better than to come bothering someone at a time like this.’

  Unperturbed, Terry smiled again and said, ‘Please just pass on my condolences to Mrs Sharples and tell her I called.’ He still had others to interview, Mavis’s neighbour for instance. She’d been very quickly on the scene.

  ‘Who was that?’ asked Lily.

  ‘A reporter,’ replied Anne. ‘I sent him away with a flea in his ear.’

  Terry Knight knocked on the door of number 5 Ship Street and greeted the woman who opened it with a wide smile. ‘Mrs Maunder?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Carrie. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Terry Knight, Belcaster Chronicle. I wondered if I could have a word.’

  ‘What do you want?’ asked Carrie warily.

  ‘I understand that you were poor Mavis Randall’s best friend and you were there when she was found.’

  ‘Yes, I was,’ said Carrie.

  ‘I’m writing a report for the Chronicle and I just wanted to be sure I’d got all the facts straight. Could you help me with that?’

  ‘You’d better come in,’ said Carrie.

  Half an hour later Terry’s notebook was covered in shorthand as he’d written down everything Carrie had told him. ‘It’s certainly a sad story,’ he said when she’d finished. ‘And those two little girls are now in Australia, you say?’

  ‘Yes, that EVER-Care place sent them without telling anyone.’

  ‘Thank you so much for your time, Mrs Maunder, you’ve been a great help. I don’t suppose you’ve got a photograph of Mavis, have you?’

  Carrie thought of the snaps John had taken at the wedding. ‘I might have,’ she said and rifled through the kitchen drawer. She still had a copy of the one of Mavis and Jimmy together. ‘You can have this one,’ she said. ‘It was took on their wedding day.’

  Terry Knight thanked her, tucking the photo into his wallet, and extracting two five pound notes. ‘For the photographs, Mrs Maunder, and your time.’

  Terry Knight was delighted with the interview; it had garnered him far more information than he’d anticipated. The murder was the big story at present, and all the other papers would be on to it soon, but this background story, the story behind the murder, would probably be the bigger story in the end. Terry remembered the encounter with a woman when he’d been to interview Emily Vanstone. She’d been shouting about them stealing her grandchildren, hadn’t she? Was that Lily Sharples, Mavis’s mother? His interest had been aroused at the time, but he’d never discovered the name of the woman he’d seen at Vanstone House. No one had admitted to knowing it. Now, though, his reporter’s instinct told him that it had indeed been Lily Sharples. Now he would make following up this strange story a high priority. A human interest story to tug at the heart strings, he thought, and one that could run for several weeks as he allowed it gradually to unfold.

  Emily Vanstone sat at her desk drinking a cup of tea, scanning the papers that Miss Drake had brought in. There was nothing that interested her particularly in The Times or the Telegraph, and so she turned to the Belcaster Chronicle, which she always read cover to cover. She liked to keep up with what was happening round her; keep her finger on the local pulse.

  She had been pleased with the piece Terry Knight had recently written about her in his series on rising business women. At the end of it he had also mentioned her charitable work, noting that the EVER-Care Trust, which looked after destitute children, had been founded by her.

  A good paper, the Chronicle, she’d thought at the time. A good, traditional paper. Trustworthy. Speaking for all right-thinking people, not like the gutter press, stirring up muck at any opportunity.

  Turning to this pillar of the community now she saw the two-inch headline blazoned across the front page.

  YOUNG MOTHER SLAIN

  Below was a grainy wedding photograph of a young couple, under which was printed

  Mavis and James Randall on their wedding day.

  Shocking! thought Emily Vanstone. Such a horrifying thing… and here in Belcaster, too. She peered at the picture, but the names and faces meant nothing to her. She read on.

  The Belcaster police are seeking Jimmy Randall (33), labourer, to help with their enquiries into the vile murder of his wife, Mavis. Mavis Randall, recently married and mother of baby Richard, aged five months, was found by her mother earlier this week, lying in a pool of blood in her own kitchen. She had been stabbed
with a kitchen knife, later found by the police. Mavis Randall, whose two daughters by a previous marriage had, without her knowledge or consent, been sent to Australia by the EVER-Care Trust…

  The name leaped out at Emily and she skimmed through the rest of the article before flinging the paper aside. Colour flooded her cheeks as rage flooded her mind. How dare they! How dare they print such things! She’d sue them! She’d ring the editor and tell him if he made no retraction, she’d see him in court. She’d demand an apology. She’d… she’d…

  Suddenly she felt giddy, a sharp pain behind her eyes, and the room spun round her. She couldn’t catch her breath. She pushed her chair back, her heart pounding, but she couldn’t stand. She managed to reach the bell on her desk, and Miss Drake came at once to its summons. She took one look at her employer and rushed to her side.

  ‘Miss Vanstone! Miss Vanstone, are you all right?’

  Clearly she wasn’t. She had collapsed back into her chair, her breathing was ragged and the colour, so high just moments earlier, had fled her cheeks, leaving her ashen-faced.

  Frightened by what she saw, Miss Drake said, ‘You must lie down, Miss Vanstone. Here, let me help you to the couch.’ She took hold of her employer’s arm and supporting her as best she could, managed to get her across to the sofa.

  ‘I’ll ring for an ambulance,’ she said.

  ‘No!’ Miss Vanstone spoke vehemently, though her voice was scarcely more than a whisper. ‘No ambulance!’ Then, more gently, she said, ‘Just a glass of water. I’ll be fine again in a minute. Just felt faint for a moment, that’s all. Happened before. Nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Shall I call the doctor?’ suggested Miss Drake. ‘I really think I should.’

  ‘No,’ repeated Miss Vanstone firmly. ‘No, thank you. Just the water.’

  Reluctantly Miss Drake left her and went to fetch the water. When she came back she was pleased to see her employer looking a little better, colour creeping back into her cheeks. She helped her to drink, holding the glass to Miss Vanstone’s lips.

  ‘Thank you.’ Miss Vanstone gave her a weak smile. ‘I’ll be fine now.’ She looked at her secretary who was still staring anxiously down at her. ‘And I’d be grateful if you didn’t mention this little episode to anyone. It’s nothing, and I’d hate my family to hear of it and begin to worry.’